


Flashpoint

by GoodyearTheShippyCat



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Climbing Praxis Like a Tree, Comfort, Crying, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Fights, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Hugs, M/M, Military Science Fiction, Miscommunication, Praxis Feels, Relationship Negotiation, Surprise Kissing, Tears, Wakes & Funerals, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 01:29:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17592137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodyearTheShippyCat/pseuds/GoodyearTheShippyCat
Summary: After a mission goes awry and the away team is ambushed by Colterons, everything changes. Life aboard theSleipnirjust won’t be the same with one of its most colourful personalities gone, but maybe that’s notallbad.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [on_the_wing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/on_the_wing/gifts).



> Happy birthday to the amazing and talented [on_the_wing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/on_the_wing)! This disaster of a fic is for you, though at this point I’m not sure how much of a “gift” it can be considered…
> 
> It ended up a lot darker than I’d originally intended, so be warned that more than one named character dies in it (but I promise the Praxmos endgame is happy!). There are also some descriptions of the various horrors of war, though nothing too extensively graphic.

“Fucking bugs! Is that all ya got?” Cain’s gleeful cries rang out through the chaotic hangar bay, carrying over the sounds of gunfire. “Gonna have to do better than that, ‘Terons!”

Praxis sighed as he lined up another careful shot, hitting one of their attackers in the shoulder and disarming it. A second shot for a clean execution when the screeching creature emerged from behind the supply crates it was using as cover for the assault.

“Used to kill roaches every day before breakfast back on Mars! And you fucks ain’t much bigger!”

Praxis peered around the grounded enemy ship he was hiding behind, and saw Cain grandstanding from partway up a stack of crates as he picked off Colteron soldiers, gun spraying shots out across a wide area of the combat grounds.

_It’s a damn good thing he’s got the skills to back up his bravado,_ Praxis thought with begrudging admiration. Cain wasn’t the top ranked fighter aboard the _Sleipnir_ for no reason.

With a wider blind spot than most, he chose to stick where he was, having managed to find a good angle relative to the doorway from which the Colterons had suddenly begun pouring in. Just as every other entrance to the hangar slammed shut and the panels automatically locked, of course, trapping them all inside. Even though the navigators stationed around the control desks off to one side of the large space had managed to get the one remaining open door shut again, losing their lives in the process, the enemy was fast and knew the ship like the back of their hands… _er, appendages?_

As he spied another six-limbed enemy creeping along a side wall and took aim, he wondered, _What do you call the ends of bug arms, anyway?_

Even with the bodies piling up, there were still a few Colterons shooting back at them from various hiding places and the skittering pounding at the door was growing louder. It was audible even over the noise of gunfire in the hangar; the screeching sound of claws on metal and heavy thumps of something hitting against the no-longer-smooth surface of their point of ingress. It was just a matter of time before they broke through the barrier.

Praxis snuck a quick look back over his shoulder at where the remainder of the navigators were huddled around the exit on the opposite side of the room. They were still furiously fiddling with the panels and control station nearby, trying to break through the system and free everyone from this death trap. Calling ideas back and forth to each other under their breath in technical jargon he had long since given up trying to follow. A few were prying back wall panels to get at the wiring beneath.

_POOM! Hssssssssssssss_

The sound of an energy blast impacting above his head and the superheated fizzle of the air brought Praxis’ focus back to the battle. He rolled back around the angled form of the fuselage he was next to, sneaking a peak underneath and getting off a quick shot at his attempted assailant. Another blast from a different direction finished off the unlucky bug, and Praxis silently thanked whatever fighter had his back.

This away mission had gone to shit pretty damn quick. Seemed like the commanders were playing even more fast and loose with their lives than usual. Now all he could do was take out as many ‘Terons as possible, and hope the navigators could find a way to get them out and back to their shuttle.

An ear-piercing sound of wrenching metal being torn through, creaking open inch by inch, rang through the open space of the hangar. It made Praxis want to grate his teeth and cover his ears, but he kept his hands on his weapon and aimed at the door which had stood between them and the enemy—now breached by black, clawed limbs scrabbling to push the panels further open.

Every fighter with sights on the increasingly large hole was firing into it, inhuman cries of injured Colterons coming through loud and clear, but they didn’t let up. Gnarled segments of metal door peeled further open like the rind of on orange, now glistening with greenish blood.

_Do Colterons even have blood?_ Praxis tore his wandering mind away from unimportant questions to focus on the task at hand.

The flurry of energy blasts aimed at the door continued, but the damn ‘Terons kept at it, slowly making headway until the hole was big enough for hulking soldiers to start squeezing through and shooting back. They were cut down almost instantly, but the ones behind were undeterred; continuing to enlarge their makeshift entrance, using the fallen bodies of their comrades as shields as they began coming through fast and thick.

It was chaos as the Colterons finally managed to rush out in a swarming attack. Movement everywhere, streaks of light from the energy weapons, the sounds of skittering feet on metal floors, and the heavier thumps of armoured bodies falling on them.

And then, a familiar voice screaming in pain.

Praxis swiveled his head to see Cain clutching at one arm, a huge laceration going through his suit fabric and flesh alike, a dead ‘Teron halfway up the stack of crates by his feet. The hand of his injured arm barely clung to his rifle, pointing down instead of at the oncoming enemy soldiers.

It was like the damn bugs could smell weakness. Before Praxis could even swing his gun to aim at the new targets and provide covering fire, he watched in horror as one blast and then another hit Cain in the side and chest. The first shot knocked his gun clean out of his grip and sent him reeling, a pained grimace distorting his wolfishly handsome face. The second seemed to knock the breath from his lungs, mouth falling open without an accompanying scream.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he watched the other man teeter and fall, landing out of his sight lines beside the stack of crates. But the onslaught stopped for no one, and he had to go back to picking off as many ‘Terons as he could. Hoping against hope that they’d slow down eventually and there would be a chance for everyone left to escape.

A streak of black just registered as it passed into his field of vision from his blind side. Not big and hulking like one of their enemy, but small and lithe, running from the same direction as the assist shot he’d received earlier. A momentary break in the sea of enemies allowed him to determine it was Deimos careening through the fray towards Cain’s last position.

He was going in guns blazing, mowing down ‘Terons as he went; too small and quick a target for them to lock onto before getting annihilated themselves. He’d left a trail of insect-like bodies in his wake by the time he reached the stack of crates, moving around and between them while continuing to unleash a furious volley of shots at the oncoming enemies. He held the position formidably—in complete silence and barely visible between the hefty metal storage crates—the opposite of Cain’s earlier showboating.

“FALL BACK, MEN!”

Artemis’ deep voice carried over the sounds of battle. The navigators must have finally managed to hack or brute-force their way through the door lock controls. The other fighters Praxis could see were already beginning to retreat, weaving between bits of cover in the open space, stopping to shoot back at what was left of the enemy when they got too close. He looked for his next safe location in the open hangar, but before he could begin a dash over to it, he realized Deimos hadn’t left his position at the very front of their lines.

_He’ll be surrounded if he doesn’t get moving,_ thought Praxis. It only took a split second of deliberation before, with a frustrated growl, he ran in the opposite direction to the rest of the Alliance soldiers.

When he reached Deimos’ position and dropped low behind a crate for cover, the other man didn’t even acknowledge his presence. Just kept his focus, shooting down remaining clusters of Colterons with deadly precision. Praxis took a shot or two at a perpendicular angle to take out some bugs that would have flanked them, then turned his attention to the spot on the floor next to Deimos.

A crumpled body lay on the ground in an ever-spreading pool of blood, blue-streaked dark bangs escaping a black helmet plastered to the floor by it. The scent metallic in the air, distinctly human and cutting through the muddy, foul scent of Colteron viscera from the piles of bodies surrounding them. Praxis didn’t even need to feel for a pulse or watch for the disturbing lack of breath—leaving his form unnaturally still—to know that Cain was long gone.

“Deimos, he’s dead. We have to go,” said Praxis as he resumed shooting, keeping his voice as level as possible while raising it to be heard over the sounds of their weapons.

No response. Not that he’d been expecting one from the ever-quiet fighter.

“Come on, we’ve been ordered to retreat,” he tried again, voice louder now, approaching a yell, trying to communicate the urgency of the situation. “Deimos! We’re going to get left behind!”

The smaller man threw him a cutting look but didn’t budge. He clearly didn’t want to leave Cain’s side, even in death.

_Fine, we’ll do this the hard way._

Praxis took advantage of a momentary lull in the battle to loop his fingers firmly into the back of Deimos’ flight suit collar. He began to drag the smaller man toward the next safe spot they could fall back to.

“ _Noooo!_ ” a harsh, rasping sound came from his captive, who struggled against Praxis’ grip, trying in vain to stay put.

“There’s no point in _you_ dying, too!” Praxis barked back as he raised his rifle one-handed to fire a shot at a ‘Teron he spotted hiding behind one of the ships. It ducked out of sight, he wasn’t even sure if he’d hit it. “They’re bound to have reinforcements on the way. We can’t stay, there’s no time.”

It took until they were about halfway back toward their exit before Deimos finally decided to cooperate and move under his own power. There were no other human soldiers in sight by then. Praxis grabbed Deimos’ forearm and broke into a run for the final stretch, making sure they weren’t separated in the winding corridors out, the sounds of blasters echoing behind them.

 

The shuttle ride back was more depressing than any funeral Praxis had ever attended. At first it was dead silent, all of them wondering if they’d be followed and shot down by a squadron of Colteron ships. Praxis watched as the pilot of the shuttle controlled their flight with stiff, jerky motions, face a frozen mask of steely determination. If he’d been using an old-school physical steering mechanism instead of a navigational orb, he’d have been white-knuckling it all the way back.

Everyone seemed to breathe a little easier once the backup Starfighters coming from the _Sleipnir_ closed the distance between them. The warship was visible on the front view screen, antimatter canons starting to glow as they powered up, ready to vaporize the not-so-derelict Colteron vessel as soon as their convoy was out of range.

They had suffered heavy casualties, and it showed. The craft felt too empty; pre-mission jitters and excited conversation replaced by quiet sobbing, comforting murmurs, or stony silence. There had been far more fighters than navigators when they set out, just in case. Now the black uniforms were nearly equal to the white ones. Thinking about the fact that at least three navigators, by his count, hadn’t come back with their small group made the loss seem that much more staggering.

Praxis had immediately looked to make sure Ethos had made it out when they were finally ushered into the shuttle—the last ones before the doors sealed and takeoff sequences commenced. He’d spotted his curly-haired navigator at the other end of the personnel seating area and let out a thankful sigh. When their gazes met, Praxis was almost surprised by the relief he saw in the big, blue eyes staring back at him, brimming with tears. He had almost moved to go and sit with Ethos, but hesitated when he realized that the pale blond head of poofy, messy hair his navigator was looking over belonged to Abel. Cain’s navigator spent the entire trip back leaning on Ethos’ side, openly weeping.

Across the narrow aisle of the ship from him sat Deimos, still and silent, refusing to make eye contact. There were no tears in his eyes, but Praxis could almost feel the loathing tinged with disgust—or maybe jealousy?—as the small fighter watched Abel. Even when he turned away from the sight of the navigator crying, he continued to ignore Praxis, looking anywhere else and hiding his eyes behind the fall of his dark bangs.

Among the increasing murmurs as they made their final approach to the _Sleipnir_ ’s shuttle docks, Praxis spoke under his breath to the other fighter:

“Deimos, you can hate me all you like, but I wasn’t going to leave you there to die, too.”

The shorter man looked up at him, glare as sharp as the daggers he was known to carry. Praxis felt the strength of that piercing stare even more acutely than the point of the knife Deimos had once dug into the small of his back. Their eyes remained locked for a long moment, then as quickly as he’d looked up, Deimos cast his eyes back down and closed them. His impassive face communicated nothing the rest of the way back.

 

The military funeral for their fallen comrades was efficient and sterile; empty caskets arranged in two lines in a cleared hangar bay. The space was almost eerily similar to the place those men had fought and died in, but no one mentioned it—the assembled soldiers gravely quiet, save for a few sniffles here and there. Bering and Cook made empty speeches about honour and service. When Encke took the podium with a solemn look on his face, he sounded warmer than Praxis had ever heard him before. His more personal memorializing of the dead lent the ceremony an authenticity it had been lacking.

Praxis looked over at where Ethos stood next to Abel, who had put a brave face on things. He watched as his navigator furtively squeezed Abel’s wrist in a gesture of support. The other navigator’s eyes shone with unshed tears, but he remained stoic, standing at attention the entire time.

Keeler continued in a more sentimental vein for his eulogy. Though it was brief, the Lead Navigator still apologized when he had to pause halfway through to take a few shaky breaths. His grief at the loss of his men was obvious and genuine. Scattered, muffled sobs could be heard through the hangar.

The peace and respectful silence was a little more disturbed when Cook reclaimed the stage to present a posthumous medal of honour to Porthos. The hulking navigator had apparently decided to play the hero back on the Colteron vessel, picking up a rifle from the body of a fallen soldier. He’d thrown himself between the cluster of navis who were working on getting through the doors that had them all locked in—trapped for slaughter—and the Colterons who had broken through the line held by the fighters.

In the end, he was probably the one who had saved the most lives directly. Without him, many more might have perished. He’d saved Ethos, which was more than Praxis could say for himself. When the ‘Terons had shown up, he hadn’t even known where his own navigator was.

_Should have been paying more attention_ , he berated himself internally. A better fighter would have kept track even while searching the room. His self-flagellation was interrupted by a keening wail.

Phobos had his head in his hands again—not sobbing as hard as he had on the shuttle back, but that just left more energy for him to expend on the volume of his cries. Luna patted him on the shoulder awkwardly, making soft, comforting shushing noises.

Deimos looked mortified, standing stiffly beside his navigator as the man made a scene of his grief. The fighter looked like he’d rather be anywhere else at that moment, his head swivelling away from his counterpart as he tried to blend in with the other soldiers standing around them. Momentarily, Deimos’ gaze met Praxis’ and took on an accusatory air, as if asking why he’d dragged him out just to suffer this indignity.

Praxis felt like a rock had sunk in his stomach.

When the ceremonies finally ended, Praxis saw Deimos make a break for it through the crowd, weaving between dark and light coloured uniforms, heading for the nearest exit. With one glance back at Ethos—who had an arm around Abel and was leading him toward a different exit—Praxis made a split second decision and headed after the other fighter instead. He almost lost the shorter man in the crowd numerous times.

He watched as Deimos slipped into an empty lift ahead of the mass of dawdling fighters making their way toward it. And then he watched as Deimos reached out to press a button. The door slid closed in Praxis’ face just as he shoved his way to the front of the group that was about to step into the elevator.  

“Seriously, man?” “Fucking creepy asshole.” “Guy’s asking for a beating.”

The assembled fighters grumbled around him, but Praxis just watched the numbers descend on the panel next to the closed doors, noting where they finally paused before climbing back up and opening again in front of him.

It seemed to take an eternity to get down to the Fighter Base levels, with some occupants of the lift getting off at the mess hall or general gym areas. When he finally exited on the level he’d noted, Praxis knew it was probably hopeless.

Still, he rushed through the main hall, peering into side corridors, looking for places the mysterious little fighter he was following might like to loiter. After a few minutes with no luck and no leads, he headed back towards the lift, defeated.

_I wonder if Ethos brought Abel back to hang out in our room again?_ Praxis didn’t blame the other navigator for not wanting to stay alone in the room he’d shared with his late fighter. But he didn’t really want company at the moment—especially not the awkward company that Abel made for, all things considered. He debated the merits of hitting the gym or just getting a coffee from the mess hall, with no active duty scheduled for the away mission crew until the following day.

Passing by the hand-to-hand combat training rooms again, he noticed that one of them was occupied—a red glow emanating through the window—but the lock hadn’t been engaged.

_…maybe?_

Praxis slipped inside, and was gratified by the sight of a familiar, compact form smashing fists and feet into the panels of the simulator rig.

_CORRECT. CORRECT. CORRECT._

Deimos was really going at it; frenzied limbs flying everywhere, high kicks hitting the panels above his head. With the helmet on, he hadn’t noticed Praxis’ entrance, so Praxis waited. He approached the training rig slowly, and stayed outside the range of any possible violent motions.

_LOADING DELTA SEQUENCE THREE..._

In the pause between rounds, Deimos must have heard one of his footfalls, because the shorter man spun around, ripping his helmet off as he did so. The look of rage on his face made the way he’d glared at Praxis in the shuttle the previous day pale in comparison. Sweat shone on his brow and his normally sleek black hair was matted into clumps from the helmet.

 “Hi Deimos, sorry to intrude,” Praxis started to say, stepping up to the training rig, “I just wanted to see how you were doing, and, uh, offer my condol—”

_READY?_

The simulator’s electronic voice ignored his attempt to make peace, and so did Deimos.

“You hated Cain! Didn’t know him!” The smaller man was spitting fury, speaking more words than Praxis had ever heard from him in a hoarse, scratchy tone. He dropped the helmet in his hand and stepped toward Praxis. “Should have just left me!”

_INCORRECT._

“There was no sense in you dying there, too,” replied Praxis with a heavy sigh.

“ _Fuck you!_ ” Deimos hissed, poking him in the chest with one gloved finger.

_INCORRECT._

He let the smaller fighter threaten him, holding his hands up in surrender. “There was nothing either of us could’ve done for Cain.”

“You don’t understand! Any of it!” Deimos was crying now, raspy voice sounding like it might break at any moment.

_INCORRECT. INCORRECT._

Praxis was backed into the safety rail behind the training rig’s main floor as the other man pounded his fists against Praxis’ chest.

“I’m sorry, Deimos.”

“NO! _Not sorry!_ ”

_INCORRECT. INCORRECT._

He pulled Deimos against his body in a forceful hug, primarily to get the other fighter to stop punching him. It was starting to hurt. Deimos let out a small, devastated wail and burrowed his face into Praxis’ chest, clutching hard at his sides.

_SEQUENCE FAILED. PROGRAM ENDING._

The room fell silent and dark around them as the neglected simulator gave up.

Praxis loosened his grip slightly and tried to stroke Deimos’ back in a calming way. He could feel the shorter man shake against him, though he had stopped making noise again.

Before Praxis knew what was happening, Deimos threw his arms around Praxis’ neck and hoisted himself up the larger man, clinging to either side of his hips using his knees. If it weren’t for the railing pressing into the backs of his thighs, Praxis might have fallen over in surprise as Deimos wrapped lithe legs around his body, feet pressing into his glutes. A small but muscular form pressed burning hot along the length of his torso, radiating extra heat from the workout.

Deimos started kissing him, fast and rough, tongue shoving into his mouth even as tears continued to roll down his cheeks. It was not at all what Praxis had expected when he decided to follow Deimos out of the funeral, making his reaction time a little slow as he tried to process what was happening. He wasn’t sure if the salt he tasted was the other man’s sweat or tears.

_That’s_ not _a helpful thought._

“Deimos, you’re upset,” he turned his head to the side to speak, but Deimos just started mouthing at his neck instead, which was extremely distracting, “Uhhh, maybe this isn’t a good idea.”

“Shut up.” Deimos began to squirm against him, bringing small, strong hands up to dig into his hair.

“Deimos, you’re grieving,” Praxis managed after an involuntary gasp at the demanding contact, “You don’t actually want this.”

“Do want it,” said Deimos, emphasizing his point by sucking a hickey into the side of Praxis’ neck just above the collar of his uniform jacket.

“We should stop.”

“Have to be _doing_ something, first,” teased Deimos, raspy voice sending pleasant vibrations right over Praxis’ ear, which he then nibbled at.

The temperature in the small training room seemed far too warm. Praxis could feel perspiration beading at his own temples as he tried to gently push the other man off of him.

“Deimos, stop. I don’t want to do this right now.” He tried to bend forward slightly to put the other man down without toppling them both onto the ground. Deimos slid down his body, feet landing silently on the floor between his own.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” said Deimos while pressing against him, rocking into his pelvis where his cock had started to perk up and take notice as the smaller man had gyrated in his arms just moments ago.

“That’s not... _argh_! Deimos, _stop_.” Praxis pushed him back by the shoulders more roughly, getting some distance between them. “Deimos, you’re crying, this is a difficult day. I get it. But this is a bad idea.”

“No!”

“Yes. I’m sorry, but I’m not going to do this.”

Deimos just let out another wail as he threw Praxis' hands off, running from the room.

Praxis slid down the railing to the floor and just sat there for a few minutes, head in his hands. Confused and wanting—and hating himself for it.


	2. Chapter 2

Praxis figured that was probably it for whatever interactions they might have had. No coming back from that kind of disastrous mess. What he wasn’t expecting was for Deimos to start tailing him around the _Sleipnir_.

At first it was so subtle, he didn’t even notice. He would sometimes get that tingly sensation on the back of his neck like he was being watched, but could never tell why. He’d whip his head around as he moved through the corridors of the ship, not seeing anything out of the ordinary but still feeling not quite alone.

After about a week it got a little more obvious. Deimos allowed Praxis to see him following, but whenever he would try to turn around or go over and confront him, the sneaky fighter would disappear quick as anything. It felt like having a shadow that got spooked if you looked at it directly.

Praxis just tried to get back to a normal routine, ignoring the strange new addition to it as much as he could. Teams that were still intact after the mission were expected to be training together again. The ones who had lost flight partners were informed that they would be reassigned and should continue with individual training until then, though everyone was warned that some shuffling of teams might need to occur in order to maximize compatibility. The ship’s gossip mill was whirring with the news, everyone wondering if they’d end up with a different partner.

Abel had been hanging around Ethos like a lost puppy ever since the disastrous mission. The two of them spent even more time together than before, and Praxis often came back to his shared quarters to find two pale figures hunched over their laptops working instead of just one.

“Hi Praxis!” A stereo greeting he’d learned to expect.

He would just wave hello and try not to make too much of a nuisance of himself.

Praxis secretly held onto a shred of hope that Abel would get paired with him. He didn’t actually believe there was any chance of that, though, and hated himself for thinking it in the first place. He consoled himself with the idea that at least that way, Ethos would be paired with a better fighter. One who wouldn’t have lost track of him in the heat of a battle. One that wouldn’t have left him reliant on another navigator to protect him.

 

Praxis tried to ignore all his creeping doubts and the vaguely unsettling feeling that being followed much of the time left him with. He spent at least a week on edge from it all, but after that, settled into the strange routine with more comfort than expected. He was starting to get the game; he didn’t acknowledge Deimos with anything more than a quick glance or a nod.

In turn, Deimos began getting closer, day by day. The silent fighter would step quickly into the right spot to be assigned to the same training group in PT. Or stand close to him during briefings—the tingly sensation of being watched from beneath dark bangs ratcheting up with the close proximity. Praxis started to pay more attention to Deimos’ whereabouts, tracking him in turn.

One day, the smaller man even spotted him in the gym; helping change weights and counting reps in that quiet, sandpapery voice. It was barely audible over the grunts of exertion from other fighters, so Praxis found the majority of his focus shifting to every little sound and motion Deimos made. But his shadow slunk off at the end of the workout without a word, leaving Praxis to his shower. The water hissing out of the showerheads made him recall the rasp of Deimos’ voice, and he stayed under the spray for far longer than was really necessary.

He was surprised with a big hug from his navigator on returning to the room that night, suddenly remembering that the new teams were supposed to be posted earlier that day. He’d forgotten to check, distracted as he’d been by Deimos’ actions.

_Is this a hug goodbye?_ he wondered, a pang of sadness striking him at the thought.

“I’m so glad they didn’t split us up,” a happy voice said from under his chin, only warbling slightly.

He hugged Ethos back before letting him go and looking down at his smiling face. A face looking back at him with openness and gratitude he really didn’t deserve.

“Me too, Ethos,” the words tumbling from his mouth before he even realized he’d thought them.

His navigator beamed up at him before returning to his laptop, chattering away as he did. One line stuck out among the usual techno gibberish Praxis never followed closely.

“Oh! Abel got paired with Athos! Did you see?”

He mumbled something back about not looking beyond his own assignment—a little white lie—but it hardly mattered as Ethos excitedly babbled about how much nicer Abel’s new fighter was. He quickly backtracked, feeling awful about accidentally bad mouthing Cain now that he was dead, then pressed on with enthusiasm.

“I hope him and Abel get along well! Then maybe all three of us can hang out,” Ethos continued, “Or, uh, all four of us. I mean, umm, if you get along with Athos.”

“Huh? Oh, sure. Athos is fine,” Praxis replied.

He was a little lost in thought over the revelation, happy that at least Abel had been paired with a more decent fighter than Cain, if not quite as high-scoring. Athos had always been friendly to him, if a bit overly talkative. He was one of the few other fighters Praxis didn’t actually mind, not being one for the macho, alpha-dog posturing either.

After they trained together in the flight sims the next morning, Praxis and Ethos headed to lunch and were met at the mess hall by Athos and Abel. Who was no longer going to be known as Abel—he introduced himself with his new task name, d’Artagnan.

_That’s going to take some getting used to_ , Praxis thought to himself.

The navigators drove the conversation, discussing their latest analyses, but it wasn’t long before Athos jumped in. Praxis had never thought of himself as particularly quiet, but in this group he practically felt like Deimos, silently watching the discussion around him. That is, until a fifth tray clicked down atop the table on his unoccupied side and the fighter he’d been thinking of slid onto the bench beside him without a word.

“O- oh! Hello, Deimos!” Ethos welcomed the unexpected newcomer while Abel— _d’Artagnan_ —looked slightly nervous.

Deimos inclined his head slightly in Ethos’ direction, then set about eating. He sipped his borscht almost as quietly as he did everything else.

Athos broke the strained silence with a joke which got Ethos laughing so hard that he covered his mouth, embarrassed by his own outburst, a blush spreading over his pale cheeks. Lunch continued like that, feeling far too easy and natural. No underlying discomfort or threat of drama. Deimos’ presence quickly accepted without further comment or reaction. It was strange.

Stranger still was Deimos starting to sit next to him in the mess hall pretty much all the time after that; whether he was alone, with Ethos, or in a larger group. It also didn’t matter whether it was just the two of them, or a rowdy group of fighters playing cards—the silent man ignored Praxis’ attempts to make small talk. He didn’t know why, or have any idea what to do about it. So instead, he just let it eat away at him slowly.

 

The weird one-sidedness of things with Deimos haunted him more and more as the days wore on. Praxis didn’t understand why the other fighter was spending so much time around him then slinking off or ignoring his attempts to interact. He didn’t need Deimos to suddenly become a sparkling conversationalist, he would be happy just to get _something_ back from the quiet man. Anything, really.

_A hello, a smile… a kiss._

Praxis shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the stray thought. That kind of distraction was not helping things one bit.

It was especially annoying and noticeable, at least to him, in group situations. Deimos had no issue with nodding or shrugging when addressed by Ethos, or even Athos! The talkative fighter seemed to have become inseparable from their newly formed social group, and from his own navigator, especially. Praxis was pretty sure there was something up between those two, but every time he tried to bring Athos up when it was just the two of them—in flight sims, at breakfast, or in the privacy of their shared room before bed—Ethos found some way to change the topic. But his uncontrollable blushing and stammering sort of gave the game away.

After one group lunch where he’d made more of an effort to join in the conversation than usual, Praxis decided he had to confront Deimos. He’d tried so hard to loop the other man into the discussion, asking all sorts of questions with simple ‘yes/no’ answers, watching for any sign of a response. All he got back was a blank stare at best, or Deimos just continuing to look down at his tray. It was beyond frustrating, and stopped the conversation dead.

Luckily the others didn’t seem too disturbed by the silence they were so accustomed to from their fifth lunch companion. But whenever Deimos nodded in agreement with something Ethos said, or covered his mouth in a silent impression of a laugh at one of Athos’ outlandish stories—just the hint of a smile playing across his face and sparkling in his eyes—it drove Praxis even further up the wall.

_Why is it only me he ignores?_

They had a free training period on the schedule for that afternoon, so Praxis headed to one of the smaller gym rooms intended for stretching, yoga, or other kinds of mat-based exercise. It was often deserted, and to his relief, that seemed to be the case currently. He normally avoided the room if he could—too many one-eyed reflections in the mirrors lining the walls, staring back at his clumsy form attempting to mimic the graceful poses of the instructors when he _did_ have mandatory classes. Lithe, flexible little fighters like Deimos always looked so much more natural contorting themselves into various positions…

_Nope, don’t think about that_ , he chided himself before he could get distracted from his intent in coming there.

It was a perfect place for his purposes today. Like clockwork, the door slid open behind him and in stepped Deimos, who flicked his eyes up to meet Praxis’ gaze, then back down again as he wandered over to the mat rack and grabbed a clean one. He unfurled the colourful foam and laid it along the ground facing one of the mirrors, then set about undoing his boot laces.

Praxis didn’t move to grab a mat or remove his own boots. He stood and watched as Deimos ignored him, clearly assuming that he had come here to train and their little dance would continue as it had the past few weeks. Praxis screwed up his courage and let out a breath slowly before breaking the silence.

“Deimos, I don’t know what exactly things were like between you and Cain, but I don’t want whatever it was,” he said, as matter-of-fact as possible—keeping his tone neutral and trying not to let his exasperation or confusion bubble up. The other fighter still reacted more than he’d expected; head snapping up and fixing him with a piercing stare that made it even harder to continue saying the words he’d prepared. The words he’d practiced saying in the mirror back in his quarters when Ethos was “in the lab” late the other night. He resisted the urge to look into the mirrors surrounding them, and instead kept his focus on the delicate features of the man crouched in front of him as he pressed on, “I don’t want you shadowing me everywhere silently. It feels weird.”

Deimos shifted out of his crouch but looked just as wary standing there with one boot off, the other undone most of the way. He didn’t say anything—not that Praxis had expected him to—but kicked off the loose footwear a little more violently than was probably necessary, scrutinizing him the entire time. The tiny fighter looked almost vulnerable, standing there in his stocking feet, clearly waiting for Praxis to finish saying his piece.

“If you want to be friends, we have to figure out what that means for us, okay?” Praxis sighed, no longer sure if this had been a good idea.

_Oh well, too late now,_ he thought. There was nothing else to do but keep going and see what happened.

“You can’t just slot me into his spot,” said Praxis, and almost winced when he saw the other man hunch his shoulders and cast his gaze down to the ground.

“ _Wasn’t_.”

Praxis could only just hear the word, spoken in a whisper with an undercurrent of fear. Only then did he realize how harshly he might have come across. His heart sunk as he realized Deimos wouldn’t make eye contact with him again.

_Shit, how do I always manage to screw these things up?_

Praxis stepped closer to the other fighter slowly, trying not to spook him and ruin everything entirely. Tentatively, he reached out and laid a hand on Deimos’ shoulder as he thought about how to explain himself better.

“I know you aren’t big on talking—that’s fine, really. I don’t expect you to gossip with me all day long, but please… stop ignoring me. I need you to let me talk to you. To acknowledge you,” his calm tone from moments ago was lost now, desperation starting to colour the edges of his speech as he worried he was just making things worse, “This weird thing where you’re acting like my henchman, or my guard, I hate it.”

Deimos just continued to stare at the floor, fists clenched. All Praxis could feel through the one point of contact they had was tension.

“Deimos, do you understand what I’m trying to say?” he asked, holding back a sigh; not wanting to seem pushy or upset even as his emotions roiled, feeling like waves crashing up against his ribcage.

The smaller man nodded, the subtlest of motions. If Praxis had blinked he would have missed it. But he could feel Deimos’ shoulder relax slightly and took it as a good sign, even if he wouldn’t meet his eyes yet.

“Okay– I mean, great! Can we try it? Being friends?”

“Don’t want to be friends.”

Praxis felt like the wind had just been kicked out of him all at once, like he’d been dropped to the mats while sparring and couldn’t get a breath. He’d stupidly thought they were getting somewhere, finally. He hadn’t been prepared for outright rejection.

“Oh... okay,” he started, letting his hand fall back to his side, not sure how to respond to the complete dismissal of everything he’d been trying to communicate, “I’m sorry. I thought maybe that was what you wanted. It’s fine... umm, we don’t have to hang out if you don’t want.”

Deimos made a small noise of frustration and suddenly Praxis found himself being shaken by the collar of his uniform jacket. Strong, slender hands were clutched at the fabric and Deimos’ big glassy eyes were so close to his face. Dark, swooping brows pinched in agitation as he spoke more than a single word for the first time since that day in the simulator room after the funeral.

“Not paying attention,” he said, irritation evident, but also perhaps a touch of amusement carried in the quiet words.

Praxis didn’t have time to overanalyse it, though, as Deimos lifted onto his tiptoes and tilted his head up to bring their mouths together. The kiss was slightly awkward—lips pressed too hard against his, catching them funny against his teeth—but not desperate and pained like last time. It took a minute for Praxis’ brain to get the message, but eventually he got there.

“Oh.” He wrapped his arms around Deimos’ waist and kissed back, slow and gentle.

When Deimos pulled away again, Praxis tried not to be disappointed. The other man gathered his boots and did up the bare minimum of laces to keep them on his feet. With a shy look from beneath the inky fall of his hair, he took Praxis’ hand and led him toward the door. Praxis gladly followed. Not sure what Deimos’ plan was, but anticipation already building in his chest, replacing the unsteady feeling of floating adrift on massive waves that had been there earlier.

Cain’s death had certainly been a flashpoint. So much had changed so quickly in the weeks since—more than Praxis would ever have imagined. The _Sleipnir_ felt like a whole different ship in some ways, and he looked forward to seeing where it went.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: I was listening to a fight-themed playlist while writing the first section of this fic, and the chorus of “[The Mighty Fall](https://youtu.be/wWGjWXDpnOg)” by Fall Out Boy started just as I began Cain’s death scene. It may have been the most serendipitous meeting of writing with background music I’ve ever experienced, even if the song as a whole isn't exactly a match XD


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